Our final service together on Yom Kippur explored what it means to laugh–and find joy–even amidst tragedy.
You can listen to the audio recording here: https://recorder.google.com/4aeaf4c9-78d3-42b8-8b0e…
There’s a story in Bava Metzia in the Talmud—the Tanur shel Achnai, the Oven of Achnai. It’s perhaps one of the most well-known stories, often told and retold. I’ll summarize it briefly.
There was a debate among the rabbis about whether or not a particular type of oven was kosher. All of the rabbis said no—except for Rabbi Eliezer, who said yes. The group of rabbis, who served as the legal arbiters at the time, stood firm in their decision: the oven was not kosher. Rabbi Eliezer disagreed.
So Rabbi Eliezer said, “If I am right, let this river flow backward.” And the river began to flow backward. But the rabbis replied, “No proof can be brought from a river.”
Rabbi Eliezer then said, “If this carob tree agrees with me, let it be uprooted.” And according to some witnesses, the tree flew 100 cubits; according to others, 400 cubits. But again the rabbis said, “No proof can be brought from a carob tree.”
Rabbi Eliezer pressed further: “If the walls of this beit midrash—this house of study—agree with me, let them collapse.” Immediately, the walls began to fall inward. You might imagine that by this point, at least some of the rabbis would have given in. But not Rabbi Yehoshua.
Rabbi Yehoshua stood and rebuked the walls: “When scholars are debating matters of Torah, what right do you have to interfere?” In honor of Rabbi Yehoshua, the walls stopped falling. But in honor of Rabbi Eliezer, they did not return to standing fully upright. And the Talmud teaches that the walls of that beit midrash remain slanted to this day.
Finally, Rabbi Eliezer said, “If I am right, let Heaven prove it.” And a heavenly voice proclaimed: “Don’t you know that in all matters, the law follows Rabbi Eliezer?”
At this point, you might think the rabbis would yield. God’s voice had spoken, after all. Imagine it: the river flows backward, a tree flies through the air, the walls collapse around you, and then God’s own voice declares you’re wrong!
And yet, in the face of this, Rabbi Yehoshua stood again and said three simple words from Devarim (Deuteronomy): Lo ba-shamayim hi—“It is not in the heavens.”
In other words: God, You gave us the Torah. You entrusted it to us—to live by, to interpret, to apply. Which means You also gave us the possibility to misinterpret and misapply. The Torah is now in our hands. It is no longer in the heavens.
This was possibly the most rabbinic—and the most polite—way of saying to God: Butt out. You don’t get a voice here anymore. This is ours.
We’ve seen God angry before. Throughout the Torah, when the Israelites sin or rebel, God threatens to wipe them out and start over with Moses. We’ve seen God silent before, ignoring the people. But here, God is told directly: You don’t belong in this debate. You have no place here. The Torah is ours now.
How might you expect God to respond? A plague, perhaps? Abandonment? Turning away in anger? Any of those might have made sense.
But the Talmud tells us what happened next. God laughed. God said: Nitzchuni banai, nitzchuni banai—My children have defeated Me. My children have defeated Me.
I love this story because it shows a side of God we don’t often imagine. Quick to anger? Yes. Silent? Yes. But here—God laughs.
The Kotzker Rebbe taught that there are three rungs on the ladder of response to tragedy or fear:
Crying out.
Silence.
Laughter.
We can imagine the rabbis in the story crying out in fear, or falling silent in shock. But here we see the highest rung: laughter.
Joy that rises above pain. Laughter that reflects resilience, hope, and the capacity to embrace life even amidst suffering.
I want to be clear: this is not to suggest that crying out or silence are wrong or inappropriate responses. Kohelet teaches us: “For everything there is a season.” At times, crying out is right. At times, silence is right. And sometimes, laughter comes later.
But the ability—even after tragedy—to eventually return to joy is a deep Jewish teaching.
After the Second Temple was destroyed, the rabbinic response was to curtail joy. They banned music on Shabbat and holidays, even at weddings. They silenced laughter. But over time, joy returned. Imagine Judaism without music! We cannot live without joy.
I also think it’s no coincidence that in Israel, Yom HaZikaron, Memorial Day, is immediately followed—without a pause—by Yom HaAtzmaut, Independence Day. This was deliberate. The message: even in the face of loss and grief, the ultimate response is celebration.
That is deeply Jewish. Not always the first response, not always the easiest, but ultimately: how do we return to joy? How do we laugh again, even when the world feels darkest?
The Kotzker Rebbe himself lived through immense suffering. And he taught that joy is not about ignoring the shadows. It is about finding sparks of light within them. His student, Rabbi Nachman of Breslov, taught: “It is a great mitzvah to always be joyful.” This doesn’t mean we deny pain or ignore tragedy. It means we seek out the laughter that makes survival, and even hope, possible.
As Yom Kippur 5786 draws to a close—just a little over an hour left—perhaps we’ve spent this day, or the past ten days, or the past month of Elul, in reflection. Perhaps not. Either way, there’s still time.
Some of us have been fasting, some of us haven’t, and some of us should not be fasting for health reasons. That is not a failure—the Torah itself suspends the obligation in those cases.
But all of us, in one way or another, are about to re-enter the world. And my prayer is that we do so with the courage to dance in the shadows, to find light in the darkness, and to embrace life fully.
Not by denying pain. Not by pretending there is no suffering. But by affirming resilience, hope, and joy.
And so, my brachah for each of us, as we enter our final Amidah, is this: May we find within ourselves the sparks of resilience and hope. May we rediscover the capacity to laugh and to love, even when the world seems dark. And may our laughter be all the more joyful when we emerge again into the light.
